


Keep My Conscience Clean

by carmen



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Comeplay, Exhausting Sex, Gangbang, Hans Being Awful, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Painful Sex, Power Dynamics, Princes & Princesses, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmen/pseuds/carmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guardsmen of the Southern Isles would do anything for their fearless leader; he's counting on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep My Conscience Clean

**Author's Note:**

> Additional notes for mild consensual-nonconsent elements (for Hans' purposes, this is safeworded sex, though he never uses one), a major case of creepy ulterior motives going on, loyalty stuff, and a bit of age-difference stuff implicit, though Hans is of age.

Their prince is a generous man.

The first guardsman's glove grinds through his red hair and he exhales wetly through his nose; his eyes sting from nearly retching. His mouth is too-full and too-stretched, the exquisite burn of it gratifies him terribly and if that's wrong he doesn't care to be right; he can revel in his own endurance pressed just a little too far. Another thrust jostles him, and he has to pull back or else smother; he gulps a breath before sinking down again, sucking greedily and in between bouts pressing his face against the guardsman's hip to catch a little respite. The man still wears the buff-colored breeches of his off-duty uniform, and had been in too much of a hurry to strip even when they had been so circumspect about divesting the youngest prince of the household of his riding gear. Funny that it happened to happen this way; he'd thought himself sore _before_ coming to bed and can only imagine how he'll feel after. Other servants' hands have helped dress and undress him his entire life, so it's not really all that strange. The second guardsman is thrusting between his thighs, while the third holds him in place for his fellow to use. 

"No more," he pants, "no more, wait," but they will not desist until he is sated -- not them, him. If they confuse this for their own satisfaction, so much the better; he has offered himself to them. It's a gracious act of compensation for the voyage they are soon to undertake, and, a shrewder part of him thinks, to secure a little loyalty in what he might have them do once they arrive at their destination. Being invited to his bed, one at a time instead of all together, ought have been enough of a treat.

It's possible he's taken on more than he can really manage; he'd rather not think about biting off more than he can chew, as he moans his insistence against spilling seed.

Hans is released from his service (a glittering string of saliva trails from the man's cock-head, still fastening to his damp lip and the wet smear of spit and seed down his chin) and falls to his hands and knees; he scarcely has his bearings before they're touching him with their hands again. Their near-interchangeably hands and bodies are hard and callused and he does a fine enough job caring for these men out in the field and remembering their individual names and preferences but here they are only bodies, services, flesh. 

He's breathing hard; they all are, flushed and elated. The first guardsman strokes the nape of his neck almost tenderly, rubs his shoulders and sinks down beside him to suck and kiss at his throat, while the second one from behind him (this one must be older, and is rougher with him) is fumbling with two fingers between his buttocks and seeking to press inside. 

His body hitches a little at this -- not feigned. It's one thing to be debased and to have his eager mouth used, however roughly (he will deliver his congratulatory address to the new queen with a sore throat and an aching tongue) and he likes it well enough to have them use him like their gutter and their rag, but _this_ is more than he can comfortably allow. 

(He doesn't know if they think he's a virgin, it's more important that they think he's doing this for _their sake_ , and not as practice.) 

Their prince is a _selfless_ man. He drops his head to the bedclothes; he smiles his meekest reassurance and spreads his knees apart a little more. 

He feels himself breached, feels the first rough thrust working in against difficulty and tries to ease into it but his whole body is a confused mess of arousal and it's nearly impossible to relax when it feels like this, when he feels this good. (Good is perhaps not the word with which one would describe Prince Hans of the Southern Isles.) From his understanding, there's a spot which ought to be stimulated here; he can't speak as to whether or not that's working out but each smooth stroke makes him cry out, voice small and broken.

The third one is jerking himself off almost lazily now. Seed streaks his chest and face and thighs, he can feel it beginning to dribble down his cheek and into his sideburns; it slicks his palms and spills between his fingers. Someone claps a hand against his long leg approvingly, and someone else murmurs in surprise, something about the color he turns when struck, and the sweet softness of his flesh. He is not the best horseman out of all his brothers, not the biggest nor the leanest, not the ugliest and not the most handsome -- among their number he might as well be nothing, he's nothing remarkable. Among his own men he is the finest creature they've ever seen and they can hardly wait their turn to get a piece of him. 

Their prince is perhaps a rather cunning man. 

A mouth gone dry with anticipation tugs at his cock from beneath him, and fastens on it, lapping amateurishly. He is unbearably sensitive and when he whimpers in almost-alarm, one of the men on top of him (ah, but which of the two?) apologizes. The need is unspooling itself in him fast and heavy, like a summer storm gathering head, and the ache surges though he is raw from use and his cock is painfully hard and he feels like he cannot _possibly_ stand any more. He can't bear this, can't keep going. 

He spends himself for perhaps the third time, and now he really is spent; it hurts, and at the sigh that rips itself out of his lungs they understand what's transpired and shift themselves to lay him out. The come spills out of him when his third obedient companion withdraws his now-softening cock, and the tremendous lack he feels is worse than the initial intrusion. An awful kind of relief sweeps over him, coupled with a weariness that hits him like a sledgehammer; before Hans can roll over and before he must look them in the eye, he wipes at his face with his forearm and for a moment doesn't know if he'll laugh or cry. He does neither. 

His hair is disheveled in ways he never knew it could be before, and that's the absolute least of his problems. If it's possible for his current state of total filthy abandon to be attractive -- in his men's eyes, judging from their expressions of slightly-startled awe as they peer down at him, he would appear to be very beautiful. 

God, there'll be no luck trying to launder these bedsheets; he'd be better off having them burned before anyone has the time to notice anything amiss. He has plans for these next few days.

**Author's Note:**

> This... probably qualifies as one of the stranger things I've ever written.


End file.
